When Language Becomes a Measure of Belonging

Shame, assimilation, and the “no sabo kid” experience in Latinx identity

By Grace Orozco, LMSW | May 1, 2026

There is a certain question I have been asked my entire life more times than I can count. It usually comes up naturally in conversation or during small talk. That question is “Do you speak Spanish?”

On the surface this question may seem simple. However, it tends to carry more weight than one may realize.

I grew up as a third generation Mexican American in Arizona. My parents never used Spanish in our home, despite my grandparents all using Spanish primarily. I would hear Spanish being used at family gatherings or when my mom would call her parents to chat, but it was never something I was really given the chance to learn or practice for myself. Hearing it around me, I picked it up in bits and pieces.

Because of that, I am able to understand my grandparents when they speak to me in Spanish. I always respond in English, though, and that became the way I naturally communicate.

I have always carried the thought with me that I should speak Spanish since all of my extended family are bilingual. I have tried to hold on to the knowledge I do have of the language, and compared to the many Americans, I would consider my skills above average. However, compared to the average Hispanic person, they feel far worse. 

This comparison inevitably raises the question for me of where exactly I belong culturally. 

Inheritance vs. Adaptation

Spanish is often imagined as something you simply have if you come from a Latinx background. It is treated as something inherited automatically, like eye color or last names. In reality, language moves through generations unevenly.

In the U.S., many Latinx people still report some ability to speak Spanish, and many see it as important to cultural identity. However, fluency drops significantly in later generations especially where English dominates school and daily life.

That shift is rarely just personal preference. It’s shaped by schooling, migration, safety, and assimilation.

Latinx parents play a large role in this by actively not teaching their children Spanish in an effort to help their kids move through systems more easily than they may have. My own mother, who has a career as an educator, has expressed to me that she held these same concerns around teaching me Spanish as a child.

I remember being in fourth grade and seeing my classmates who spoke Spanish and had accents being pulled out of class during our math lessons to attend English Language Learners classes. These classmates would often fall behind in other subjects because they were being pulled away from class to learn the pronunciations of basic English vocabulary. 

My mother, like many other Latinx parents, fear this type of hindrance to their children’s education and by consequence, access to opportunity.

This reinforces the idea that English has become the language of survival. Spanish becomes something that lives in fragments, overheard conversations, family gatherings, and phrases you almost recognize but can’t fully hold onto.

The “No Sabo kid” Label

The phrase “no sabo kid” circulates online and in everyday speech as a shorthand for someone who doesn’t speak Spanish “properly,” or at all. It comes from a grammatically incorrect form of “no sé” and has become both a joke and a judgment.

Oftentimes, I have found myself preemptively proclaiming myself as a “no sabo kid” before anyone else can as a way to defuse it or to take some control over how I’m seen.

What makes this complicated is that it doesn’t always come from outsiders. It often comes from within the same cultural space it is measuring. Studies and reporting on Latinx identity show that although many people believe Spanish is not required to be Latinx, those who don’t speak it still frequently report experiences of teasing, shame, or exclusion from others in their community.

A contradiction begins to form where you can be culturally “included” in theory but still be questioned when it comes to practice, not only by others but also by yourself. You might hesitate before speaking. Avoid situations where Spanish is expected. Or feel a sense of fraudulence in spaces that are supposed to feel like home.

Assimilation Happens in Layers

For many families, English didn’t replace Spanish because someone decided it should. It happened gradually, through necessity. School systems not only required English, but also actively penalized the use of Spanish through correction, isolation, or disciplinary measures. Jobs rewarded it. Social belonging depended on it. Children absorbed English first because they had to move through institutions that ran on it.

Over time, Spanish often became quieter in the home, then occasional, then scattered. So when someone later says “you don’t speak Spanish?” it can land strangely, like being asked about an important piece of yourself that you were never fully given the chance to maintain.

And still, it gets interpreted as distance from culture rather than acknowledgement of survival and adaptation.

Pride and Performance

What develops from this is not just a language gap, but a question of one’s own position in their culture. Many Latinx individuals who don’t speak Spanish describe feeling caught between identities, shaped by cultural life at home but shaped just as strongly by English speaking school and public environments.

That in-between space can create a subtle pressure to perform belonging correctly or to prove “enoughness” in either direction. Speak Spanish and risk being corrected, or don’t speak it and risk being questioned.

Over time, even casual interactions started to feel like internal negotiations about my legitimacy as Latinx, where I’ve found myself overthinking conversations with Spanish speakers long after they’ve ended. A wrong word starts to feel like proof I don’t belong, my lack of fluency turns into something I judge myself for, and my family history becomes something I feel like I need to justify.

But language gaps are rarely individual failures. They are often the natural result of cultural transition across generations and what gets preserved, what gets lost, and what gets reshaped under pressure to adapt.

Reclaiming What Identity Actually Is

More and more people are beginning to push back against the idea that language is the primary gatekeeper of cultural authenticity, and some are simply redefining what it means to belong.

Culture isn’t a test you pass or fail. It’s a lived experience shaped by how you were raised, the values you carry, the way your family shows up for each other, and the stories that stay with you,  even if they were told in English.

Reclaiming Your Identity

If you’ve ever felt like you were “not enough” because of your Spanish or the lack of it, you’re not alone and you’re not outside of your identity. You are still inside of it, even if it looks different from what others expect.

We can also hold space for pride in your family, your roots, and the choices that shaped your upbringing. Even if Spanish wasn’t passed down, it often wasn’t out of neglect, but out of protection and a hope of making life easier. That context matters, and so does recognizing that where you land in your cultural identity is still valid. 

Language can deepen connection, but it doesn’t define it. Not having it doesn’t erase where you come from, and it doesn’t make your connection any less real. Your cultural identity doesn’t have to mirror anyone else’s to be enough. It can look different and still fully belong to you without shame or need for explanation.

Over time, the question shifts from “Do I speak it well enough?” and instead becomes “Am I still allowed to be here as I am?”

For many of us, the answer has always been yes.